


a furrow, a line (a vignette in time)

by theproseofnight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, always love, extreme pining and gay flailing, feels everywhere, occasional angst and smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproseofnight/pseuds/theproseofnight
Summary: Dances of love intertwinesuch graceful girlslit by the moonon these clear nights— Odes by Horace —ORA collection of prompts, drabbles and ficlets. Epigraphs of love. Different universes. All with Clarke and Lexa overwhelmingly in love with each other.Latest chapter 21/02/21: The hardest part about getting over someone is the still being in love with them bit. Sequel toOne and Two.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 109
Kudos: 517





	1. These Old Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winter years. Entwined in love and entangled in each other. (canon divergent au)

_***_

_word prompts_

**brontide** (n.) - the low rumble of distant thunder  
**aeipathy** (n.) - an enduring and consuming passion

***

She hears the low rumble of distant thunder but thinks nothing of it. A storm is coming, the creak in her joints tell her as much. The low hanging clouds confirm it. Yet, the threat of the sky breaking does not scare this tired warrior, these old bones. Not when what fell from it nearly a lifetime ago now lies cradled with a silver head of hair on her lap.

Lexa cards prune, calloused fingers through the once-golden tendrils, retaking up the task of undoing its knots, careful not to disrupt her houmon’s peaceful slumber, a hard earned rest after their breathless run into the forest. The steady heartbeat under her other hand protecting over a gently rising and falling chest, is the only sound her ears are attuned to.

An ambush had turned a quiet midsummer day’s ride into a frantic, desperate search for shelter, separating them from their horses and guard. On returning from the union of a carpenter’s son and a miller’s daughter—a first light observance taking place beyond the Floukru border where she and Clarke were honoured guests—they had stopped along the route for an impromptu afternoon swim, ditching their ceremonial garb for the direct relief of water against the high noon’s mugginess. No sooner had they gotten dressed after emerging from the river, which had left aging skin soothed and wrinkled and produced sun-kissed smiles, that Lexa had to rely on aching muscles and old battle instincts to defend from the onslaught of bold thieves too young to know not to test the retired Commander and Skaiheda. Despite the lasting peace since Aden’s ascension and the end of her reign, the odd fractious clans, with poor memories and insurgent youths, have been pushing the boundaries of the coalition lands to try their luck at stealing from Trikru prosperity.

Weaponless and undeterred by the significant generational gap, she and Clarke staved off the surprise attack with unspoken, coordinated precision, though not without sustaining and delivering some injuries. Moving from swift and elegant violence, Lexa became a fury of fists on noticing the cut to Clarke’s leg and the blood spilling down her side, one strike away from ending the remaining attacker’s life when the footfalls of a larger calvary stomped closer in their direction. Anticipating they would soon be outnumbered and readily out-powered, she abandoned her pummelling to whisk a fallen Clarke into her arms and hurried them to safety into the deep of the woods.

Silently, while shouldering Clarke’s weight, Lexa navigated through the thick copses, nimble and barefoot, boots left behind by the water’s edge. Luckily they had already crossed back into territory where the sequoias were as familiar to her as the verdant canopies of her childhood, finding and camouflaging her way through the giant trees with practised ease. Although Lexa was never one to back away from a fight, let alone run and hide, with Clarke’s compromised mobility, the best option was to retreat, hoping their Nightblood escort who had respectfully stayed some distance away for their bathing privacy is since halfway off to alert Polis Tower. Now, after temporarily bandaging Clarke’s wounds with a torn piece of Lexa’s cape, they wait it out, nestled inside a found hollow trunk until more reinforcement arrives.

Rain pours down. Lexa watches with pointed interest as the forest floor dampens until soaked. _Good_ , she thinks. It will wash away their tracks.

The sky cracks again, the sound louder than before. Getting nearer, more insistent and menacing. In the days when a sword was always strapped on her back, graunsheikas were a dependable harbinger of terrible things to come, their rage a soundtrack to accompany the roar of war and precipitate devastation and destruction. Thunderstorms were markedly not one of Lexa’s favourite things about the vulnerability of survival on the ground. In her senior years, however, they are welcomed, earthly reminders of life’s persistence. Of what remains unbroken after the rubble is cleared, and unhurt, once all the scars are counted; of what can still be felt in weary bones and seen by crinkled eyes.

The fear of loss is not what it once was in their youth. There are no longer worries about ice nations or reapers or paunas. Though the latter does draw a smile across Lexa’s face remembering that first shared encounter with one, and how they ended up much in the same position as they are now with Lexa sitting, keeping vigilant while Clarke lightly snores. Protecting over her sleepy lion.

As the ceiling above brightens and darkens in quickening intervals, it means more than surviving that Lexa is able to witness the symphonic lightshow when all the noise of the world has long quieted to the murmured rhythm of her fingers stroking through Clarke’s hair.

Another crack.

It startles Clarke awake. Her whole body jerks in alarm, the force of it nearly knocking Lexa back, an inch from hitting her head against the wood.

“Shhhh,” Lexa coos, readjusting Clarke onto her lap and tightening her hold, “it’s okay, niron.”

A breath of recognition slips from Clarke’s lips at the familiarity of her voice and softness of touch. Eyes scan intently all over her body for any visible signs of trauma before they find Lexa’s pair, awashed with relief to have come up empty-handed.

They soften into the gentlest blue—somewhere between aqua and azure—that Lexa has yet to find an equivalent translation in Trigedasleng.

 _You’re here. You’re safe._ They wordlessly communicate.

What Clarke says aloud instead earns a light chuckle from Lexa as she pushes a strand of grey behind her ear. “Still got it, huh, grandma,” she remarks with playful mockery despite sounding just as thin and worn.

Taking no pride in her fading strength, Lexa dares not tell her wife that her heart is still a stuttered beat from normal. Its skipping and accelerated rate may well have more to do with the fond look she’s receiving than their recent exertion, nonetheless, she straightens her shoulders back and juts out her chest, peacocking to Clarke’s delight. She maintains, “I need to keep up with you.”

“Ai mighty Heda,” Clarke teases, giving a humouring squeeze to Lexa’s tricep. “Good thing your arthritis didn’t act up.”

“Those branwodas picked the wrong pearl-clutchers to mess with.”

Lexa’s language lessons with Reivon pay off, the unexpected cultural reference causing Clarke to brim with wincing laughter. “Don’t make me laugh,” she chastises, a hand gingerly holding her side as her breath catches between a laugh and a spluttering cough.

Lexa brushes a thumb over the top of Clarke’s hand to make amends for the pain but she is unapologetic about its cause. Softly, she contends with all the conviction and seriousness of her previous station, “It is my life’s duty.”

Clarke’s features indescribably soften before suddenly furrowing in thought. The levity of the moment passes, preempting Lexa’s sentimentality from taking deeper root. As if recalling for a fleeting second when Lexa’s presence and safety and her mantle were not a certainty—when one bullet meant the slippage between this life and another—Clarke presses a hand to her abdomen before darting forward to draw Lexa into an urgent kiss. The physical reassurance a necessary balm.

Rain, thunder, forest; they all fall away as Lexa falls into the sweep of Clarke’s lips. Since reluctantly withdrawing from public service because of how marked and weathered her body and movements have become from the brutality of a life spent in combat, bending under and folding into the give of Clarke’s mouth has been the only sustaining weakness Lexa does not begrudge.

She is weak to the way Clarke kisses, remembers how the first time it made her want to be reckless. To tug closer, part her lips for the psalm in Clarke’s as the hum of her name met the hymn of Lexa’s. The way it left the ribbed vaulting of chest and cage hallow then hollow, akin to how old-world cathedrals must have soared before crumbling into ruin, when Clarke stepped back and whispered, _not yet_. Then on the eve of a goodbye came a second kiss that she never thought could happen but regardless continued because of the tremble of Lexa’s bottom lip and the steadiness of Clarke’s hand that led to a night of wreckage of the most breaking but breathtaking kind.

The unexpected overstay almost caused Lexa her last breath the next morning at the pistoled hand of an advisor and his misplaced intention. Obstinately, Clarke willed her to draw one more breath, then another. Stubborn to be the one that makes Lexa’s lungs contract and expand on demand, a third kiss—tear-stained and heart wrenching in its begging tenderness—had given Lexa all the air that she would ever need. Weeks of healing and months of further bloodshed followed before the fourth and fifth and _nth_ kisses came. Each one ineffably softer than the last but somehow still as ruinous as the first.

From wreckage and ruin, those kisses became holy ground on which they rebuilt an alliance between land and love. Solid and firm, they were able to stand tall as the seasons changed, the din of war silenced, and several thousand moons bared witness to events unimaginable before to Lexa’s presumed fate: politically, the rise of cities with Polis as the coalition’s administrative centre and the clans thriving on frictionless trade and productive knowledge-sharing; personally, a bonding ceremony, one difficult and two easier births, and a permanent residence and summer cabin each filled with libraries of books and Clarke’s drawings and yongons laughter.

So Lexa kisses back. Kisses with everything that decades together have condensed into the minutiae of conversation between lips and tongue. They part only long enough for utterances of “ai hod yu in” to find breath. There is no room for anything else.

Nothing is wanting. Not when Clarke still kisses her like this. Not when an enduring and consuming passion tethers the story between ground and sky.

An uncounted time later, the thunder recedes in the distance to a low rumble again. Meagre and inconsequential. It does not scare her anymore. The only thing that matters is the continuous meeting of their mouths and how soon they can return to their furs so that one kiss can become many.

Clarke sighs happily when Lexa slows it down, lengthens the meter of their passes and nips and licks. Surrendering to the gravity of still full lips, she sinks further into Lexa and leaves the task of holding each other up in Lexa’s care.

Even in the winter of their time remaining on the ground, the weight of Clarke’s love—solid and warm—makes Lexa feel like eighteen summers again. At the start of a journey.

Foreheads pressed together afterwards, Lexa hums agreement when Clarke yawns, “I’m tired.”

Contentment colours her exhaustion, a reverberant feeling expanding in Lexa’s chest.

“Reshop, hodnes,” Lexa softly commands, her final before giving into the heaviness of fatigue. “We will return home soon.”

—

Hours later, Aden kneels to find his Hedas embraced tightly at the base of their land’s oldest tree. Clarke’s head rests in the crook of Lexa’s shoulder, her hand laid upon her chest. Two figures curved in tranquil repose. He has never seen them look so blissful and youthful, having only heard reverent stories about the early years from his father and namesake. Holding back tears, Aden reaches up to wrap Lexa’s cape more snuggly where it drapes—careful and tender—around Clarke’s back.

Stillness pervades the forest floor save for the faint sobs of the young, inconsolable Nightblood who had raced back for help but whose guilt now at failing to protect his charges, cuts open Aden’s silent grief. The trees sway in quiet empathy.

The fight must have taken the final toll on their frail hearts. At ninety, it’s inconceivable that they were able to put one up at all. Yet, Aden thinks, when it comes to each other, fragility means something else.

He will have the daunting task of informing Onya, Jeik, and Madi, but finds solace knowing they will be relieved at how their mothers—his grandparents—have travelled onto the next shore.

In each other’s arms, taking their last breath together.

“Safe passage,” he enjoins through a watery gaze.

With dusk dimming the sky behind him, Aden builds two small fires on the ground, then sits and waits, watching the dance of light, crackling, entwining, ephemeral, until the last of their embers fade into the night. Billowing upwards toward the stars.

_May we meet again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of these were first posted on Tumblr but thought I'd give them a home here. They are mainly one-shots but for any chapters that don't end happily, assume there will be a forthcoming follow-up, because goddamnit, Clarke and Lexa deserve better. Thanks for reading and if you want to ruminate with me about the vagaries of love and all things clexa, come say hi [@theproseofnight](https://theproseofnight.tumblr.com).


	2. The Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love, a noble cause, for which I would give up my throne for you._  
>  (modern au)

***

There’s a tear in her suit—a small break in the knit pattern at the sleeve. The cut of linen had given into the insistent tugging, the fibres losing to the desperation of fingers looking for purchase to stop the agent from leaving the Paris flat.

From leaving Paris.

From leaving.

“You can’t quit. I don’t accept your resignation.”

“Your Highness—”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Clarke, please,” she sighs, dropping the title as resigned as her shoulders do at the losing fight to end her three year assignment with some grace.

The decision is difficult as is. The break in the heir-apparent’s voice makes an impossible choice more agonising than the need to walk away.

Lexa stands at the literal and figurative threshold, one foot in the space of warmth and comfort and security of the pied-a-terre that has been the narrowness of her world for three summers, the other out into the dimly-lit but well-guarded hallway where duty and honour and responsibility await, and a country needs rebuilding after coming back from the precipice of war.

“I’ve already put in my notice. Indra has the paperwork in order. Another agent is on the way. I am reassured she is an excellent personal guard, an elite former soldier.”

The words come out pointed, precise, _professional_. Or, at least she hopes, relying on years of rigorous training at the academy to project an unflappable surety she does not feel.

The response is predictably emotional, if not entirely heartbreaking. “I don’t _want_ another agent.” A hand entwines with hers, a gentler tug this time yet wholly more damaging for what it rips open. The three beats of silence fill the space for the unspoken, _I want you_ , that goes, as always, unacknowledged.

“Your safety is my priority. I cannot protect you when ...” Lexa stops short of confessing.

When, _what?_

When it pains her to watch her charge being swept off her feet in the ballroom, evening after evening, by suitors and foreign dignitaries eager to impress upon the future of the Arkadian throne; when an auspicious union might stave off the rise of clamouring nations but leave her bereft of a warm hand and too-blue eyes, aching for an affection that can never be returned; when she would unflinchingly take a bullet for the heart that pounds louder in her ears than her own but feels frayed at the edges by drunken kisses and behind-close-door softness and sighs; when she has come to see this temporary residence as permanently _theirs_ , the private terraced, top floor apartment in the 6th arrondissement a world away from the civil unrest back home.

When they have crossed over so many lines—back and forth—that she can’t decipher between those drawn out of self-preservation and those ancient ones inscribed during the gilded age at the height of the monarchy’s reign.

When Lexa is so deeply in love that it is a kindness to them both that she lets go now while happiness is still a possibility and ruin has yet to sever them in half.

“I apologise for overstepping. It won’t happen again.”

Cold, factual, objective. Shoulders square, chest out, hands move behind her back, clasped together to keep from reaching out.

Her attempt at distance falls flat. Another easy prediction. Clarke looks incredulous, a flash of hurt at the economic summation of their time spent together, before her gaze steels into something dangerous.

“I’d call fucking me senseless in my royal bed a little more than overstepping, _Commander_. Or is that all I was, a good lay to keep your thoughts happy during winter?”

The words hurt as intended. Harsh and full of anger. They cut to the bone.

“You are fielding _marriage proposals_ , Clarke,” Lexa reminds quietly, persisting past the rawness of emotion. The pain. Despite the rank and the medals, she is only a foot soldier when all is said and done. Within these walls, Her Royal Highness is just Clarke. But everywhere else, Lexa is very clear about boundaries—of who she is addressing—and where she can and cannot go.

“There is no room in your bed for anyone whose blood does not run blue in their veins.”

A smile unexpectedly blooms across Clarke’s face. Like the first shard of sunlight breaking through velvet curtains ushering in morning, it fills the room with the warmth of a new day. Lexa’s heart brightens in answer and cautious hope.

“I don’t care for any of that,” Clarke softens, shaking her head. “Arkadia isn’t so draconian to be genetics policing. My parents would also never force me into a loveless marriage. It’s written in the constitution—which you’ve studied at length—that the choice is mine to make.”

“A choice between nobles.”

“I am not choosing any of them,” Clarke insists, frustrated.

But she also hasn’t chosen Lexa neither. Noble or not. The secrets. The stolen softness. Lexa’s steady heartbreak to have the sovereign’s attention only in the dark, behind brass doors. A crown of flowers that wilts by candlelight’s last flicker is too heavy for either of them to continue wearing.

Clarke seems to read her thoughts. She comes in closer, her hand cupping Lexa’s cheek. Unable to fight the tenderness, Lexa folds into the touch. Clarke draws her in for a kiss.

“Stay,” she pleads, a whisper against gently bruised lips, “and I will change the laws so that I can choose you.”

Opening the door wider, Clarke steps back from the threshold, deeper into the apartment.

Hand held out. Waiting. A clear promise: _love, a noble cause, for which I would give up my throne for you._

Lexa stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I am weak for bodyguard Lexa (and her future queen, Clarke.)


	3. One and Two — Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The math is simple. The heartbreak isn't.  
> (modern au | angst volume up)

***

“I am so sorry.”

The weight of the words bears down on her shoulders, already slacken from the strain of her body to stay upright. 

She has lost track of how many times _sorry_ has been uttered, and moved on to counting how many times the apology can cut through her—ten, one hundred, a thousand?—before she bleeds from the pain.

A human heart, Lexa thinks, is not meant to survive such repeat injury. Such pain. To endure so many cuts. Yet here she is, slumped on their kitchen floor, back held up by the cupboard, surviving. The first blow came and went. The confession made breathing difficult, but not impossible. Breathe in and out. In and out. Simple math. One and two.

“It didn’t mean anything.”

One, in.

“I want _you_.”

Two, out.

“Lexa, you’re scaring me.”

In. 

“Please, say something.”

Out.

“I’m sorry.”

One.

“So, so sorry.”

Two.

Her hearing is somewhat shaky because Clarke’s voice thins when it reaches Lexa’s ears. Her vision possibly shattered because, through a blurry gaze, she sees only the likeness of someone she loves crouched in front of her. No. _Used to love._

“Lexa, baby, you need to breathe.” Hands on her cheeks implore, thumbs rubbing the apple of them, begging, “Please, breathe for me.”

 _I am_. Lexa wants to argue, head shaking, but only a muted sob comes out. The ground around Lexa might have broken, her world falling apart, rent in half, but her lungs remain intact, working at full capacity. They are strong where her heart is weak.

She wants to comfort wet blue eyes, quell its devastation. Wants to tell Clarke, it’s fine. She’s fine. Breathing is fine. _Easy_. That it’s precisely all Lexa has been doing. All she _can_ do.

Unthinking, as if needing to offer proof, she turns her head and nuzzles into Clarke’s hand—the smallest of exhale onto her palm as evidence—before leaning forward and drawing Clarke into a deep, wrenching kiss.

Lexa kisses and kisses. Wrought in want, wrecked in need. Lips brined in desperation, salted in loss, but the taste is still honeyed, the texture still silk as she curls her tongue around Clarke’s and pulls forth whimper after whimper.

Seconds tick by, minutes drag on. Clarke is in her lap now, hands urgent in her hair, mouth urgent to reciprocate; to repair and repent. Doing her part to stretch time, lengthen its passage before the inevitable arrives. Lexa feels the building dampness of Clarke’s desire pressing into her stomach. There’s a guttural moan when her hand dips below and gathers the wetness onto trembling, seeking fingers. Swollen and throbbing and aching, she holds Clarke’s heartbeat in her hand. Cradles it, strokes and strokes and swallows each reverberant cry.

Then Lexa is inside of her, pushing into softness and staying unmoving as Clarke rocks and keens and chases the fullness. For a while, there is nothing but the intermittent sound of Lexa’s name echoing in their kitchen—a heady mix between pleasure and sorrow—until it rises to a crescendo.

By the time Lexa’s thumb intently swipes and presses her clit, hand thick with her release a microsecond later, Clarke is the one left breathless. Back arched beautifully in a bow, chest heaving, mouth open and gasping.

For Lexa, air is plentiful. Breathing is not the problem.

It’s the wanting to withdraw from this familiar warmth, to take leave of Clarke’s clinging tenderness, get off the floor, pack her bags, and walk away. The part where she turns her back on a five year relationship because of one mistake; the part of figuring out where she’ll sleep tonight by herself; the part of waking up alone the next morning and every day after—those are the difficult tasks that her buckled knees and broken heart won’t let her do.

So, she sits. And counts.

Waits for the pain to come, or go. 

(Lexa isn’t sure which way is which by this point.)

Waits for feeling to return to her limbs.

Waits for Clarke’s tears to stop so hers can fall and she can see more clearly again.

Waits to not be so in love that she had crumpled like a house of cards with one punch of two words. _There’s someone_.

Waits and waits. For the numbness to subside. For Clarke to let go.

Until then, Lexa does nothing more than breathes.

She breathes.

In and out.

_One and two._

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😢 ... It gets better?


	4. Plus One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clexa wedding au concept, (loosely) based on the movie … (modern au)

***

Clarke and Lexa. Lexa and Clarke. Best friends from college who never became more because of circumstances and bad timing, although not for a lack of attraction or desire. Years later, now in their late twenties, Lexa’s engagement has recently ended while Clarke is still searching for the one. With wedding season upon them and the heat of the summer sun behind them, they agree to be each other’s _plus one_ for the next eight weekends. Joining forces, saving on hotel bills, and doubling up on the fun to get them through the godawful speeches and saccharine yet too sincere displays of affection. One wedding per weekend. A survival partner through the sludge of heteronormativity and its rehearsal dinners and after-brunches. Clarke helps Lexa to get over her ex, Lexa helps Clarke to get a date. It’s mutually beneficially, mutual pining notwithstanding.

Some weddings are small and intimate, others grand in party size and venue and noise. Some locations are pedestrian but nicely prettied up, backyards and gazebos and rooftops; some are on the nose, literally, the inside of breweries and the outside of wineries; and others, expensive and exotic, islands and mountains as backdrops.

Some weekends involve road trips and petty arguments about Lexa’s granny driving skills versus Clarke’s unnecessary aggression as they fly over interstate freeways, pop radio’s greatest hits blasting out of rolled down windows, the wind in their hair and a lightness in their karaoke-filled lungs; others include a short plane hop and splitting earbuds and sharing a blanket, quieter journeys with Clarke snoring and drooling on an unbothered Lexa who strokes her hair in gentle, random patterns.

Whatever the setting, however they get there, whoever the couple, there is always overflowing champagne and some version of late night diner runs and early morning hangover pancakes drenched in not enough maple syrup. Clarke never actually hooks up with any of the other guests that Lexa succeeds to set up for her, opting instead to stare up at the stars with her wingwoman by the end of the night or share a swim in the ocean and a cuddle by the beach or steal her fries during sunrise while ignoring the thud in her heart as Lexa talks about Costia and their sudden, inexplicable breakup. Lexa’s confusion about Costia’s unfounded accusation of not being the person with whom Lexa is in love, and a too-close-to-truth bewilderment of, “I mean, I spend all my time with you, Clarke, there isn’t anyone else,” that she wilfully ignores to stuff her face in deep-fried potatoes.

There are excessive kisses to foreheads and spinning in one another’s arms until feet and smiles hurt. There are pregnant pauses and intense staring across the room and protective arms pulling heated bodies in closer, clear signposting against drunken groomsmen or brides’ bold, bi-curious cousins from approaching. There are ‘only one bed’ motels and midnight spooning and vivid dreaming, followed by next day shyness, accelerated heartbeats, and a refusal to acknowledge that better sleep happens when their bodies twist into a familiar pretzel shape. There’s Monday awkwardness that become increasingly less so by the time Friday arrives and another RSVP card is swiped off the fridge.

Great company and a great time.

It all comes to a head three quarters way through the nuptial calendar when they make a run from the only IHOP on this particular island in Hawaii because Clarke’s clutch was too small and useless to hold anything but one lipstick and Lexa’s dress has exactly zero pockets and of course she had forgotten her wallet back at the reception hall. So 3:00 am coffee and carbs turns into a 5:00 am sprint, Clarke’s hand in Lexa’s as she pulls them farther and farther away from the cursing teenager who doesn’t get paid enough to chase mainland idiots. So they run and run, more laughter than length covered, until they stumble into a wooded park, stumbling over their tequila-loosened limbs.

Clarke falls on top of Lexa, the humour quickly replaced by another _h_ -letter word as the ever-persistent (identical) coil in their stomachs tightens. Taut with nearly a decade of suppressed sexual tension, the charged moment snaps as soon as Clarke dips down and Lexa tilts up at the same time, lips crashing together. Frantic hands move of their own volition, skirts get ruffled, legs slotting together and hips pressing urgently. It’s quick and dirty with fingers jointly going inside and competing cries of pleasure ringing in the dawn.

With flushed cheeks and sticky fingers, an hour later at their beachside villa, clothes are completely shed and everything slows down to just the taste and feel of sun-kissed skin and ocean-salted lips. Lexa comes twice more, Clarke greedily an additional three times, as they say with their bodies what has lain unspoken since freshmen year.

A small post-coital ask, a soft suggestion between kisses in the afterglow, “can we stay a few days more,” results in hand-holding and their deepest connection and most toe-curling orgasm yet.

After a broken headboard and week-long soreness, the two weddings thereafter are just pretext for sex, Clarke and Lexa pre- and post-celebrating enthusiastically on behalf of the newlyweds.

Sunglasses on and one hand around waist with another lightly massaging into hair, head tucked into the crook of neck and shoulder, they become real dates. Once the dam has been broken, it’s incredibly, unexpectedly easy and good how they balance friendship and a new layer of intimacy. Already affectionate touches linger with want and alight with arousal, previously beaming smiles widen impossibly brighter, voices typically punctuated by laughter also soften into shuddering whispers skimming the shell of reddened ears. It’s happiness wrapped in tulle, held together by lace, and animated by fairy lights.

No conflict or confusion about their relationship’s sharp change in status. Just immediate acceptance. Just them, finally together. Blinders off. Every before-denied emotion turned on. By the final ‘I do’ ceremony they attend, there’s a confession and confirmation of Clarke’s own, 

“I am in so love with you and I’ve been right in front of you all this time but you never once looked my way.”

and a refute and realisation by Lexa,

“God, you’re so wrong because all I’ve done _is_ look. All I saw was you and I stupidly thought, if I gave into what I’ve always wanted but never knew you did too, that you’d disappear from my sight and it wasn’t something I was willing to risk.”

“You’re right. You are stupid. How could you not know your eyes are too pretty for me to ever walk away from.”

The lines are as cheesy as the fondue they’ve consumed, the sentimentality a sugary by-product of over-indulgence in marital talks and marzipan fit for a Meg Ryan romcom, but they melt into them anyway.

There isn’t a proposal (not yet, that’ll come later) but as the last song’s notes draw out this last August night—a late summer serenade about love’s delayed sweetness—there are promises in the meeting of lips and the twinkling of eyes. A variation of the vows they’ve been collecting over two months (and ten years).

Best friends.

_Plus more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original movie is cute but very hetero so, naturally, my mind went to Clarke and Lexa. Some day, I may write this out fully, but for now, a concept.


	5. Blue. Grey. Green.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris can wait. We have crème brûlée. (modern au)

***

Blue. Grey. Green.

It’s been years but Clarke still can’t pinpoint the exact colour of her girlfriend’s eyes. Sometimes they are blue, like at the height of August’s sun or under other bright conditions. Grey, during early mornings while sleep still clings on and a soft smile greets Clarke’s lips. Green, in the late evenings when dusk paints the horizon pink and the moon hangs low outside their bedroom window. _Especially_ green, when deep set beneath the kohl of mascara.

Presently, illuminated by the ambient lighting of the French restaurant and tinged warm by flickering candlelight, Lexa’s eyes are somewhere— _somehow_ —in between all three shades. Breathtaking in clarity. Something intangibly surreal made all the more so by the flecks of gold, their quiet dance sending telegrams of flutter across the table. Clarke can’t look away. Absorbed in Lexa, who’s absorbed in the menu in front of her. Wanting to celebrate end of term with a surprise night out for her hardworking future writer, Clarke is instead the one feeling swept off her feet by the gorgeous sight.

“You’re staring,” Lexa says without looking up.

There’s a smile struggling not to break through pursed lips, though it’s eclipsed by the worry that’s been sitting in the corner of her eyes for most of the day and in recent weeks. The deepening crease between her brows hasn’t escaped Clarke’s notice. Behind always gentle words and affectionate touches, she reads something out of the ordinary of Lexa’s usual contentment.

“It’s a pretty menu,” Clarke deflects, teasing, keeping the tone light. “I’m admiring the font.”

“Oui, it’s Times New _Romantique_ ,” the waiter deadpans, cutting in, startling Clarke, having forgotten his presence. “Have you decided on dessert?” He asks, his voice a practised patience but his tapping foot intoning otherwise. Long, drawn out minutes have passed since his initial inquiry. Since Lexa has been scanning and Clarke has been staring.

Lexa looks up from her intensive study, a little panic at the renewed pressure. It’s the same subtle panicked look when she first arrived at the Michelin star venue, where Clarke was already waiting. Clarke had attenuated her anxiety, presumably about being under-dressed, with a slow kiss hello followed by a whispered reassurance, “You look beautiful, love.” And she does, even with her hair tied up in a messy bun, yesterday’s jeans still on, and a plain cotton white t-shirt hanging loosely off her slim frame. It’s not silk nor the sartorial richness of fibres donned by their fellow diners, but Lexa cuts a figure more stunning than all of Paris models in haute couture.

The food is worth the pretension, fake bow ties be damned, was the convincing argument that had Lexa take her seat. Besides, Clarke had tacked on, after weeks of stress, no better way to mark their halfway point of grad school than to indulge in the fanciest fries this side of the Seine. Though she was kidding, it ended up being the only item Lexa ordered as both aperitif and main course.

(Clarke had gone with the brisket, which practically melted in her mouth as soon as it touched her tongue. After some goading, Lexa reluctantly accepted half her portion and they shared the aioli-dipped, parmesan truffle fries.)

The waiter coughs, not so subtly.

Lexa scans the menu again. Eyes furtive. Clarke can’t understand the indecision. There are only three dessert options. Certain that the crème brûlée would have been chosen by now, a favourite of Lexa’s. Albeit, saffron infused with orange blossom and cardamon, topped with liquid nitrogen ice cream, is a _tad_ more upscale than the Bonne Maman plastic ramekins of cream caramel that Lexa devours at an alarming weekly rate.

“Nothing for me,” Lexa ends quietly, after much fraught deliberation.

The waiter can’t hold in his long suffering sigh. If his nose was raised any higher, he’d be hanging from the ceiling.

“Actually, give us a few more minutes,” Clarke instructs, firm, cutting him a glare. Her harshness gentles immediately once her gaze lands back on Lexa after he departs on a curt nod. She reaches across the table to take Lexa’s hand, setting aside the menu for the moment. Clarke runs a soothing thumb across the back of her knuckles. The motion draws Lexa’s downcast attention on the tabletop back up to her. “Hi, there.”

“Hi,” Lexa answers, trying for a smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Clarke squeezes her fingers.

“I don’t think I’ve known you to ever say no to custard and caramelised sugar,” Clarke observes, giving Lexa an opening, but when Lexa doesn’t take it, she asks directly, “Lex, what’s wrong?”

Gnawing of teeth into a plump bottom lip is her immediate answer. After some sort of internal debate, Lexa finally shares, “I didn’t get that summer internship.”

Clarke’s brows furrow in confusion. “I didn’t know you had applied somewhere.”

“It’s for a research assistant position on Kane’s new publishing project.”

“I’m sorry. Well, it’s his loss.”

Shoulders hunched in defeat, Lexa relays, “Nia got it,” looking like someone just poured salt on her wound. “Supposedly a better editorial fit.”

“What!” Clarke reacts, indignant on her behalf. “Her writing is so cold.”

There must be something more behind Lexa’s resigned mood because Clarke’s comment only elicits a shrug, where usually she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to remark on her classmate slash archnemesis’s lack of warmth.

“Want me to punch her?” Clarke offers, nudges with another squeeze of her hand, forming a fist with the other. “Or him?”

Unashamedly, she’s not above violence in the name of love. Her attempt to cheer works. Lexa chuckles but declines.

“They’re the least of my problems right now. After I got the call, the car broke down on my way here. It’s why I was late, had to catch the train. Raven says the replacement part might put me back a couple hundred bucks.”

“Shit, babe. Really?”

The black smudges on her face and similar marks on her shirt now make sense. She must’ve tried fixing it on her own. With Lexa’s earlier self consciousness about her casual attire, Clarke hadn’t the heart then to bring up the stains.

Nodding, Lexa’s gaze shifts to the menu. Forlorn, a blush of embarrassment colours her cheeks as she admits, “I can’t afford fancy fries or fancy egg desserts, Clarke.” Then, in an effort to shake off the pity and recover with humour, she leans in across the table to whisper, conspiratorial, eyes darting to the entrance, “Here’s the plan. You make a run for it while I take on Pepé le Pew. His legs are about the same size as my arms, it’d be a fair match. If not, I’ll stay back and do the dishes.”

Clarke laughs. She imagines Lexa wielding a baguette at their waiter like it’s a sword and sacrificing herself while dramatically yelling at Clarke to go, _leave me_. “A sound plan. Except, I’m not leaving you behind. Never.”

Lexa smiles. Small but grateful for Clarke’s loyalty. A beat later, her lips turn downward again in contemplative quiet.

“You’ve been talking about visiting France since we first met. I wanted to take you on a trip after we graduate. I’ve been trying to save up for it,” Lexa discloses.

Another flutter warms Clarke’s insides hearing of her post-grad intentions. Affection swells in her chest.

“Is that why you took on all those extra shifts at Grounders?” Clarke asks. More pieces of the puzzle click in.

“Yeah,” Lexa confirms, sighing. “But I was hoping this internship would come through, would’ve really helped. These hands are not made for grinding beans.” She stares at their joined hands, glaring at the softness of her own as if in betrayal.

Clarke laughs again. It’s her turn to flush pink thinking of Lexa’s dexterity and her other, more apt, areas of expertise. “Yes, there are definitely better uses for them.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Lexa says, the sadness lingering. She jokes, “There goes my dream of wearing a beret and feeding you croissants while you paint.”

Painting in Paris has been a dream of Clarke’s since she could pick up a brush. Lately though, that future imaginary conspicuously features a different kind of brown hair.

All the berets and croissants and art galleries in the world can’t compete. Clarke looks at her, fixing Lexa with a gaze that she hopes communicate as much. More in love than she’s ever been.

Behind Lexa is a black and white line drawing of the Eiffel Tower hanging on the wall, along with other artistic interpretations of the iconic city. If this chic gastrobistro tucked away in a garden of the northwest district is as far as she’ll ever make it to those shores, she doesn’t care.

Clarke flags the waiter down.

She re-examines the menu as he makes his way over. The sorbet is by far the cheapest item. The poire belle Hélène in rich chocolate sauce with slice almonds is next on the list. But poached pear wasn’t the reason Clarke had specifically picked out this restaurant.

“I’ll have the crème brûlée.” Clarke places her order without taking eyes off Lexa. A meaningful pause. “And two spoons, please.”

“Very well.” The waiter turns on his heels.

“Clarke.” Lexa tsks at his departure, a soft reprimand.

“I don’t need France, Lexa. Just you.” Clarke leans forward and kisses her. Long and deep and laced with promise. “We’ll figure it out.”

When she pulls back, there’s a dreamy look in Lexa’s eyes. Full and bright. And Clarke’s favourite shade.

Hazel.

The colour of happiness.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prequel snippet part of the [Something Borrowed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526018) universe.


	6. Because

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: just tell me why you did it (modern au)

***

Things have gotten worse. Sometime after the office holiday party, their conversations became inexplicably stilted, pauses long, Clarke’s staring even longer. Waiting on Lexa for something. Then the searching looks graduated to eye contact avoidance, and now to just plain contact avoidance.

Lexa wills her phone to ring. Or ding. To make a noise. _Anything_ would be better than this deafening silence.

Alone in her office, she spins in her chair and takes in the floor-to-ceiling view of the skyline. The streets below hum with activity, the veins of the city glow in red and white, tail lights and headlights mapping the movements of hurried journeys home. The flow of people and vehicles are a sharp contrast to the stillness of Lexa’s perch, high up in her glass tower.

Save for the security guard on the ground floor and the cleaner making her steady way up to all other floors, the building is empty. Her employees long gone.

A small crackle and accompanying flare of light in the distance reminds Lexa why. New Year’s Eve. Lexa sighs. She thought it’d be different this year. That she would have someone to celebrate it with. Ever since the merger with Stellar Industries, she thought that Clarke would be that someone. Or at least had hoped.

They fought endlessly at first. Difference in opinion, style, outlook. Clarke had a counter for almost everything. An alternative proposal, a new direction, another way. Even the decor had been subject to her scrutiny.

(Lexa surrendered to the latter because she had to begrudgingly admit that introducing a few shades of colour, as Clarke had passionately argued, wouldn’t kill her.)

(It took longer to admit why her ascetic preference for neutral tones was easily usurped by hues of blue. Or how she would seek it out from the pair of eyes of her Chief Creative Officer during board meetings.)

(Longer still to realise why she was so drawn to the new artwork hanging on her company walls or the beautiful but bashful smile and evasive answer she’d get from Clarke each time Lexa inquired into the artist.)

The frictions of a forced corporate marriage had required tact and trust building to navigate, but eventually she and Clarke had figured out a manageable, mutually beneficial relationship. Slow and sure, by the increasing number of late nights and cartons of take-out shared poring over project deadlines, they came to an understanding. Arriving at a partnership of sorts and a tacit pact that had consultants and competitors alike in equal awe and fear. Research and development. Creative and strategy. Supply and distribution. They played well to each other’s strengths. Lexa’s sharpness and Clarke’s shrewdness—and their mutual stubbornness—proved a formidable match. Together, they have been able to deliver emerging technologies to some of the most remote and urgent need areas in the world. In eight short months they built an alliance as if it’d been years in the making. A life’s work.

In the last two months, however, stealthily, her growing feelings have slipped in between the cracks of a missing larger picture, filling them with visions of _making a life_ with someone by her side. A future and possibility Lexa had never had the time or inclination to contemplate since taking over her family business. But somewhere between the first snide remarks deriding Lexa of her hostile takeover tactics and the text exchanges into the early morning long past office closing hours, which have nothing to do with business, a shift from acrimony to affection had happened. Over laughter and banter, she had fallen for Clarke. Hard. For her compassion and humour and kindness. But most of all, her fire. Unconsciously, Lexa had developed a thing for being yelled at and started playing devil’s advocate just to be on the receiving end of her tirade. She found comfort in Clarke’s convictions, if not the very tactile way Clarke makes her points, touch a major tool of persuasion.

With her phone depressingly silent in the last two weeks and little of inter-corporate interactions outside of a nod hello, she misses the sound of Clarke’s voice—its unique rasp and wrap around vowels—and the feel of her hand on Lexa’s thigh as she tries to convince Lexa into seeing things her way.

Another, louder, test of fireworks startles Lexa out of her ruminating. Just as she’s resigned to call it a night, a noise down the hall catches her attention. Odd, she thinks, the cleaner wouldn’t have reached the top floor this fast.

Going to check out the source, Lexa’s breath catches at the sight that greets her when she rounds the corner. Through the glass doors, Clarke stands with her back turned to the open entrance. Her hair is set in gentle curls, the golden waves a soft complement to her dress’s velvet richness and copper metallic accents. Looking gorgeous and ready for a date or a party, Lexa presumes. A lump forms in her throat wondering if it may be the former rather than the latter with how well the fabric clings to her generous curves. Before she can have a further crisis about it, the rummaging sounds alert her to an altogether different problem. Clarke is packing up. Several boxes are scattered about Clarke’s office, and one that’s three quarters full is slung on her hip. The lump thickens at the dissonant image.

“You’re leaving?” Lexa asks, incredulous, fighting to keep the hurt out of her voice. Clarke turns abruptly, a hand flying up to her chest. The box falls with a thud to the floor.

“Jesus, Suits. You’re like a ninja,” Clarke huffs without looking at her, dropping down to the ground to collect the spilt items.

With her head down and attention diverted, she doesn’t catch Lexa’s blush at the nickname, which has grown on her despite its initial purpose of disparagement to throw her off when they were first introduced. Rarely does Clarke use her real name. As usual, Lexa ignores what has essentially become a fond endearment and the skip in heart beats it always causes. There are more pressing matters to tend, though it’s difficult to concentrate with how Clarke is distractedly bent over on her hands and knees.

“You should wear shoes with bells. How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that? I didn’t even know you’d be in.”

The last bit is grumbled more to herself, like Clarke expected—or _wanted_ —her not to be there. Lexa tries not to take it personally.

Clarke jumps again when Lexa lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, handing her the fallen sketches she gathered. Their eyes meet. The air tenses as they finally face each other after an extended absence. There are dark circles under Clarke’s eyes and a new depth to the lines on her face. A paleness too. Lexa, now similarly crouched, strains against an instinct to rock forward and pull her into a hug.

“If you’d answer my texts you might have known of my whereabouts,” she remarks, mirroring Clarke’s action to sit back against a wall once the box is refilled. They’re positioned at right angle to each other but the whole arrangement feels wrong. Gesturing to the Spartan state of her office, Lexa dryly quips, “I take it this is you giving notice.”

Clarke has the decency to look guilty.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye,” Lexa states more than asks. More sad than bitter, the reason for Clarke’s dropped off communication registering. Avoiding Lexa to avoid this conversation.

“I didn’t know how.”

Something rueful passes over Clarke’s features. Her lips are tilted in the opposite direction of their usual upward slant. A pensiveness to her gaze.

Before she can decipher what that look could mean, Lexa sees a stray drawing under Clarke’s desk that was missed. Retrieving it, the familiar strokes hit home. They’re the same ones that adorn Lexa’s office, in the frame that often calls out to her during hectic days. A calm amidst too many storms. It had been a gift that showed up without explanation after their first major project win together. The gesture takes on new meaning.

“You’re the artist, aren’t you?”

Clarke shrugs. Non-verbally, a quiet smile confirms an implicit understanding of what Lexa is really asking.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

A contemplative silence overtakes the next while. Clarke, fighting an internal battle, externally evident by the play of her hands. Lexa, watching them with longing. Holding hands had been a recent development, another Clarke thing among many idiosyncrasies, which Lexa has accepted despite the murky signals it sends. Of all the micro adjustments she’s had to make to accommodate Clarke in her carefully ordered life, this one was the least protested. She aches to slip her right into Clarke’s left, twining their fingers to ground them both.

“What happened, Clarke?” Lexa asks, at a loss as to where things went wrong. “Why are you leaving? I thought you liked it here.”

There’s the look again. Probing and pregnant. Clarke reads her face, waiting for something that seems out of reach. Her eyes flicker between Lexa’s set and her lips, a swirl of conflict.

“I do, that’s the problem,” Clarke concedes. Her cryptic answer confuses Lexa even more.

“How is that a problem? Is there another offer? If it’s the money, I’m happy to renegotiate our contract.”

“It’s not the money. No other offers.”

“The hours then?” Lexa asks, wracking her brain to identify the issue so she can rectify it with the might of a Fortune 500 company’s resources at her disposal. If not a question of a gap in pay, maybe all that overtime has stretched Clarke too thin. “I know the last few weeks have been crazy because of the holiday season but it’ll normalise soon. We try to take advantage of the high production orders for when things inevitably slow down in the new year. It’ll cut back, I promise, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Lexa reassures.

“I’m not. It’s fine,” Clarke says, not sounding fine at all.

The clipped responses are baffling, especially when Clarke has never shied from making her views plaintively known. The coffee machine has been a frequent object of her derision, as well as the photocopier. At odds with her patented, unfiltered liveliness, this is the most docile and dispirited she’s seen Clarke. Lexa hates the formality of the current situation, longing instead for the familiarity and facility of companionship she’s grown accustomed to around Clarke. The rhythm of their back and forth teasing. This stiffness, like they’re conducting a trade meeting, has none of the joy of their lunch dates or the occasional weekend meet-ups at Clarke’s favourite galleries or Lexa’s preferred science museums.

“Those boxes say otherwise,” Lexa observes.

“I thought things would be different,” Clarke notes, offering a clue, “that you’d be different.”

_Oh._

Realisation dawns. Clarke’s problem isn’t with the work but with Lexa. Swallowing, she asks in a small voice, “Did I do something?”

Lexa struggles to understand the root of Clarke’s discontent and second thoughts. They had moved past their seemingly intractable differences and made meaningful progress. Or so she’d assumed. Perhaps she overestimated their closeness and growing friendship.

Clarke’s silence is answer. The cloud darkening over her face, corroborating.

Ignoring the coil tightening in her stomach, ”If you’re unhappy with me,” Lexa scratches for a resolution, “it’s not too late, we could still make a change in the new year. Would you rather work with Anya? Her specialty is finances and resource management instead of front line negotiations but, I mean, if it’s in the best interest of the merger, and you’d prefer face to facing with her—”

Clarke cuts her off. “I don’t want to work with anyone else.”

Rather than relief, Lexa is frustrated by the immovability of the conversation, the counterproductive circling. She lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. “You’re not giving me much to go on here. I’m trying, Clarke!” Her voice rises in volume, a certain desperation seeping through. “But you have to meet me halfway. Help me understand. If it’s not the workload or remuneration or recognition or staffing,” she lists with increasing agitation, “what am I missing?”

“What’s right in front of you!” Clarke finally reacts, taking Lexa aback with her fury. “Mergers, money, hours, productivity levels. Do you ever talk about anything else? That’s all that matters, right? Another transaction. It’s just business to you.”

The rebuke, a caustic characterisation, lands squarely on her chest. It stings. More than she thought it would. Crestfallen that this is what Clarke truly thinks of her.

Whatever Lexa intended to say next is abandoned. Clarke’s assailing of her priorities twists the knot further in her stomach. Scabbing at an old wound. One she had confided in Clarke, about being scared of leading an empty life consumed by only work. Maybe this is why Clarke is leaving. It’s not the future that she wants for herself. Lexa can’t blame her, but nonetheless, the jab throws cold water on the warmth she had felt all these months by the fire Clarke had built with her smiles and goading and generous heart. With the displaced heat, the burn in her chest and behind her eyes make it difficult to form a response.

A seasoned negotiator, normally Lexa would put up more of a fight, knowing when to lean in and when to leave the table. This is one battle her head can’t win. Her heart yields ground. Lexa brushes off non-existent lint from her pants, adjusts her jacket lapel, and slowly gets to her feet.

“Suits,” comes the regretful plea.

Clarke must realise her slip and how it was taken. She gets up too. A hand is mid-gesture preparing to offer an apology but the damage is done. The pet name hurts now, intangibly so, in a way Lexa can’t safeguard her heart against the longer she stays in Clarke’s presence. She shakes her head, a subtle movement but deliberate enough that Clarke retracts her hand like it’s been slapped.

Lexa looks at Clarke for a long held beat and says with melancholic quiet, “Not everything. Not you.”

Drawing up the CEO facade she hasn’t worn around Clarke in a long time, she makes her way to the door. Before leaving, she informs without looking back, “I’ll be sure to speak with HR and draft up an appropriate compensation exit package for your review. Please contact my assistant for a letter of recommendation. It’ll be waiting for you in the morning. Polaris is grateful for your efforts.”

The words are impersonal and take an agonising effort to get out, but the stoicism is needed so Lexa can hold back her tears until she can retreat to the safety of her office again.

She prides herself on keeping her voice steady when she departs with a soft,

“Bye, Clarke.”

*******

Lexa has to brace herself against her desk. Arms tented out, elbows locked, hands a deathly grip at the wood’s edge. Heavy breaths draw in needed air. The tears, which fell as soon as Clarke was out of sight, haven’t stopped streaming.

But they aren’t given much privacy to do so freely for long.

At the sound of a hesitant knock on her door, she furiously wipes at the wetness on her cheeks.

“One second,” Lexa manages to croak. When she thinks the evidence of her breakdown is sufficiently masked, Lexa breathes deeply before turning around to ask, “Yes?”

“I’m heading out. I’ll send an overnight courier for my boxes.” Clarke gently lets her know. The next bit comes out more tentative, “Also wanted to give you this.” Hovered in mid-air, she holds up a piece of paper uncertain. “It’s the sketch draft of ...” Her voice and gaze trail off towards the painting on the wall.

Lexa sees the drawing for the peace offering that it is and gingerly takes it from Clarke. In the exchange, their fingers brush, sending a jolt through her. Stealing a glance of the painting out of the corner of her eye, she sees an outline match on the paper of the back of two figures standing in silhouette overlooking the city from atop a soaring tower. In the sketch version, the figures stand closer together, hands nearly but not quite touching. New tears well up at what it represents and what is currently slipping through Lexa’s grasp. An almost love.

“Thank you.”

Clarke nods. An awkward silence follows, only breaking when Clarke says, “Before I forget, my keycard,” removing the lanyard from her dress pocket.

When she offers it, Lexa decides against risking another accidental brush to accept. She doesn’t think she’ll survive the contact, knowing it’s their last and not wanting it to be.

“Actually, it’s best if you leave your pass with Gustus downstairs. He’ll sign you out,” Lexa instructs, hands clenching, holding back.

“Oh, right,” Clarke replies. Fidgeting with her ID, she looks unsure of a next step now that there’s no longer a reason to talk to Lexa, staring at her own headshot as if it might have hidden answers to an unasked question. “Um, ok, I guess, I’ll go.”

Lexa gives a tight nod, too emotionally spent to pay heed to the doubt in Clarke’s voice.

Clarke motions to leave and Lexa moves in the opposite direction towards her window, but less than one step forward, however, Clarke’s soft timbre stops her.

“Lexa,” her proper name is said with reverence, as if it’s been held dear all this time, afraid to let go for fear of not having it returned. Lexa waits, doesn’t turn around but does tilt her head to indicate she’s listening.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Of all that things she expected Clarke to say, that wasn’t it. Lexa freezes. Several beats pass before she slowly pivots on her feet. Clarke holds her gaze when Lexa mutely stares.

They stand inches apart. Both having subconsciously gravitated to the centre of the room. To each other. Clarke fills in the blanks after Lexa finds her footing to dumbly ask, “Sorry?”

“At the holiday party. After everyone left. We kissed,” Clarke continues, arms coming up to fold across her chest in defense, her pose vulnerable when such a gesture typically preceded a challenge. “And then you put me in a cab, said good night, and that was it. I waited for some kind of acknowledgment the next day. Days, weeks, passed. Nothing. You kissed me and didn’t say a word after. Maybe it means you regretted it or changed your mind but I just need to know why you did it.”

“You remember?”

Lexa feels the floor being pulled out from under her. Clarke’s version of the truth shedding light on what Lexa has been suppressing out of self care. Involuntarily, she licks her chapped lips recalling the exact moment her world came to a standstill.

They had been dancing around each other for most of the evening. Words became more flirty, touches bolder. While the alcohol overflowed and her staff reached varying degrees of inebriation, Lexa was intoxicated all night by Clarke’s perfume, by the sway of her hips and the placement of her hands as their bodies pressed together to the music. They found every excuse to be closer, to erase gaps. Her irrational jealousy over Finn from Accounting being Clarke’s Secret Santa was given no space to breathe with the scant room that Clarke had left between them, Lexa having her undivided attention throughout the festivities. From the gift unveiling to eggnog shots to the in-house band’s lively set, Clarke rarely left her side.

When they ended up being the only revellers remaining, standing fatefully under a sprig of mistletoe in the main boardroom, hands that had been wrapped around her waist throughout the playlist moved to her neck, then her hair. A tug, a moan. Then warm and soft lips were on hers. Mouths open, eager and hungry, gave flight to caged butterflies as Lexa was kissed within an inch of her life, like she had never been kissed before. She folded willingly into Clarke’s whimpers, into the invitation of her tongue, into the feel of her want.

It was everything she dreamt of kissing Clarke and somehow nothing at all like it and way better than her imagination.

But then Clarke had laughed, and as pretty as she’s always found the sound, the breath of whisky it expelled snapped Lexa out of her trance. The same drink that Clarke had also accidentally spilled on her, forgotten about and crushed between them in their fervour. By the time Lexa returned from the washroom after cleaning and drying the stain on her shirt, Clarke was tuckered out and curled up napping on the conference table.

The crash back down from the high she had experienced was swift and painful. Lexa chose to immediately sweep the incident under the metaphorical rug—chalk it to Clarke being one of those girls who gets touchy when tipsy. Out of embarrassment, out of self-perseveration not wanting to dwell on what the heady kiss meant to her versus how insignificant it might be to Clarke, it was easier to interpret the mistletoe as an act of fate’s dual kindness and cruelty; to tuck the incident away as a drunken mistake into her overgrown box of pining. Let the taste and tremble of Clarke in her arms be a privately cherished dream of having a requited love.

Unaware of Lexa’s internal monologue, Clarke pushes on with hers. “Of course, I remember. How could I forget? It was the best kiss of my life. And I’ve been trying to stay away from you and keep my distance out of respect for boundaries, but I’ve been going stir crazy not knowing why you did it. Wondering if it was even real. I can’t get the taste of you out of my head and I need to know I didn’t imagine it.”

Lexa feels like she’s the one hallucinating with how her night has taken a turn. “I thought you were drunk, Clarke. _You_ kissed me. Laughed. Fell asleep. Then never brought it up.”

“ _No_ , you kissed me,” Clarke insists then, brows crunched in confusion, she corrects Lexa’s assumption, “I wasn’t drunk. Is that what you thought all this time?”

“Is it what all this has been about?” Lexa asks in turn.

“I had never been more sober and so were you. But then you acted like it never happened. I _laughed_ because I was happy. Content that you finally made a move. And I fell asleep because it was two in the morning, my heels were killing me and you were taking so long in the washroom.” She throws her arms in the air at the obviousness of it, looking anything but happy or content in the moment at the wild misreading of her behaviour.

With so much information to unpack, Lexa belatedly processes the implication of Clarke’s intact memory all along. She asks, steps behind, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you didn’t,” Clarke retorts, then persists with her line of questioning. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Why did you kiss me back?”

“So you do admit to starting it?”

“What? No. I wasn’t the one who initiated. Your lips touched mine—”

“You’re stalling. Why aren’t you answering?”

“Why are you quitting?”

“I asked first.”

Lexa feels her cheeks heat up with the simmering rage that only Clarke can incite. “You’re infuriating.”

“Kettle, pot.”

“Ugh. So stubborn.”

“Just tell me why you did it!”

“Because I’m in love with you, okay!”

To say Lexa’s outburst is a surprise is to confirm the sky is blue. The same blue that’s searing into her right now in confusion as well as hope.

“What?” Clarke asks, jaw slack.

No turning back, this worked up, Lexa lets the flood gates open. She goes for broke.

“Because you make me so mad,” she continues. “Because ever since our companies joined forces, you have been an unstoppable force in my life and make my heart beat in a way that it never has and really shouldn’t for my health. Because for all of my career I have spent countless hours in the office and not had a reason to go home, someone to come home to, but now you’re the reason I go to work. Because you’re beautiful when you yell and tell me how wrong I am about under-estimating chartreuse and vermillion and even periwinkle. Because my favourite colour used to be black—which you have not once failed to tell me is not an actual colour—and now it’s irrevocably, blue.”

“Suits,” said with tenderness, the pet name doesn’t have the same bite as when last uttered. Something akin to adoration shines in Clarke’s eyes. After looking dimmed all night, Lexa realises just how much she’s missed the way they would light up whenever Lexa says or does something to provoke her. “Black is an absence of light. Colour describes how an object reflects or emits light. So it’s nothing like green and makes no sense as a favourite colour.”

It’s a pedantic detail that distracts Lexa from her speech as Clarke inches forward closing the scant gap. Closer until Lexa can see the crystal clear azure of her irises. Not sky. Ocean. She’s at risk of drowning in them which Clarke must intuit because her hand comes up to rest on Lexa’s waist, holding her afloat.

With that kind of gentleness as incentive and their renewed proximity as encouragement, Lexa makes her decision.

“Same way that white isn’t a colour, black is a mood—”

Cupping Clarke’s cheeks, she brings her in for a breath-stealing kiss, robbing the rest of Clarke’s sentence of air. It deepens immediately as Clarke’s surprise yelp gives her an opening to sweep into her mouth and say with the press of urgent lips what she hasn’t been able to vocalise all along. Clarke’s hands grip tightly at her waist, anchoring them to each other while Lexa searches for words in the softness of Clarke’s tongue.

This kiss is even more memorable than the last. There’s no alcohol or mistletoe involved, no external influences or social traditions to misconstrue intentions.

Her fingers curl into the back of Clarke’s head, a light pressure that’s answered by a harder one as Clarke slides her mouth to match Lexa’s intensity. All the hurt of the past fortnight is attenuated by a shared need to give shape and sound to the unspoken but not unrequited.

When Lexa at last grants them air, she finishes her speech with, “Because I am, ineffably, inconveniently, inexorably, in love with you,” followed by another stolen dip. “Now, why did you kiss me and why are you quitting?”

“You’re an idiot,” Clarke says through a dazed look, then gathers enough wits to spell it out for Lexa. “I kissed you because _I’m_ stupidly in love with you and I quit because I can’t be in the same room as you without wanting to do it again.”

“That’s a bit dramatic don’t you think?”

Rather than take the bait, Clarke embraces their mutual uselessness, “That’s why we make a great team.”

“A dense one, but yeah, we do,” Lexa affirms. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

“Me too.” Clarke chuckles, shaking her head in wonder, “I’ve been in love with you for awhile. I thought it was clear. You’re an excellent CEO, but who actually wants to spend that much time with their boss?”

“I’m not your boss,” Lexa argues, cobbling a poor defense. “We’re equal equity partners.” If the riposte comes out sounding weak (and as ridiculous as it does in her head), she can’t tell because her heart is hammering on lag from Clarke’s admission and the promises writ in their kisses. It feels like it might just beat out of her chest when Clarke circles her arms tighter.

Leaning in to brush her lips against the shell of Lexa’s ear, Clarke whispers, “I’m interested in diversifying and investing in different assets,” emphasised by palming Lexa’s rear. “Putting stock in their ample return.”

Lexa laughs.

“That was terrible, Clarke.”

“So, fire me, Suits.”

It’s Clarke who brings them together again. She takes the lead. Softer and slower than before. Impossibly more intimate. Lexa has no complaints about the change in tempo or having to take direction. They have time.

“Nope, no more dismissals,” she says after they pull apart, pausing to allow the double meaning to sink in. “And, for the record, I don’t accept your resignation either. I’m making an executive decision and will be advising HR on Monday about a new contract policy between the CCO and the CEO.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” Clarke asks, nosing into Lexa’s neck, hiding her smile against her skin.

“No kissing and quitting.”

“Just kissing then.”

When their lips meet once more, the fireworks go off. Actual fireworks. The dark sky erupting in a rainbow of lights—real colours—that neither of them see.

Eyes closed. Hearts full.

It’s not the kind of end of night Lexa thought she would have. But it’s the kind of start she’s always wanted.

“Happy New Year, Lexa.”

“Happy New Year, Clarke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2020 everyone! More clexa stories and gay dramatics to come. In the meantime, wishing all extraordinary love wherever you may be in the world :)


	7. Finder's keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Mermaid/pirate +"stop making empty promises" (high seas au OR I have no idea what I'm doing with this one)

***

“I can’t believe you.”

It can’t end. Not like this. Lexa won’t let it.

“Please,” Clarke pleads, wincing. “Just go.”

“No.”

“You … you can’t stay,” are the stubborn words managed through laboured breathing. Trying but too weak to push her away.

Lexa presses down harder on the wound. Determined. Through gritted teeth, she stamps out for the nth time, “I am _not_ leaving.”

Since finding Clarke injured on the beach, with Raven and Octavia nowhere in sight, Lexa has not left her side. Not until the captain’s friends and crew return.

“I’ll be fine,” Clarke reassures as if the continual loss of blood is anything but fine. “But you won’t.”

Lexa glares at her and then angrily at the flow of red that runs profuse underneath her hands. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, fighting back the hot tears, desperate to hold on until help arrives.

A pale, callous hand lays gently over hers. It squeezes. So faint it really can’t be felt but the light touch seizes Lexa’s heart anyway, breaking it further.

“You’re running out of time,” Clarke softly reminds, her voice sounding thin with exhaustion.

“I’m not,” Lexa lies. Too pissed off to acknowledge the truth, she ignores the throbbing pain in her legs and the narrowing capacity of her lungs. Furious with Clarke for her recklessness. “I told you to leave it alone.”

“I had to try.” Clarke murmurs with a glassy look.

Lexa’s anger deflates at the affection reflected back from the glaze of blue more azure than the waves softly lapping behind them, whose coolness nips at her toes. Off this coast of the South Pacific, the water is clear and the beach is a sandy white with grains of coral. It should make for a beautiful, brilliant day, but because Lexa is knelt down, hunched over a girl she’s in love with and fighting to keep alive, all she sees is the light slipping away in front of her.

“You’re so stubborn,” Lexa says, more endearment than chastising. She bends down to kiss lips that taste of sand and salt and sun.

“ _I’m_ stubborn?”

“Yes.” Lexa thinks if she can keep Clarke talking, it'll stall the inevitable. “The worst pirate.”

Clarke laughs, small and barely there but Lexa hangs onto the sound. “Not pirate. Elite scavenger hunter.”

“Stealing and looting is _the_ _definition_ of piracy.”

“Finder’s keeper.”

Lexa laughs too, despite the situation. They met as children, Clarke coming into her life during a sailing holiday when Lexa came to the rescue of a gangly blonde girl who overestimated her swimming ability and underestimated the strength of the waves. From the spluttering encounter, they formed an unbreakable bond, Clarke not understanding at first why she couldn’t take her new fish friend home. They’ve been each other’s keeper ever since, spending endless summers together among the reefs and rocks until Clarke was old enough to commandeer her own sailboat and make the sea their shared home.

Lexa has followed Clarke to every shore and she is scared this may be the last.

“Rey and O are on their way. Please, Lex, you have to go,” Clarke implores, looking down pointedly at Lexa’s bottom half, more legs than tail by now.

Vehemently shaking her head, Lexa refuses to admit, the more human she becomes, the less easy it is to take in air.

“Go,” Clarke insists.

“No.”

“I promise I’ll be okay.”

“You also promised to stop looking.”

Since learning of its possible existence, Clarke has been on an unflagging mission to find the treasured stone that will break the mermaid curse and let Lexa live on land. Chasing fruitless lead after lead, courting danger at each turn. The latest ending with a sword cut to her abdomen.

Lexa had plunged out of the water without a thought to her own peril when she caught sight of Clarke collapsing on the shore. For what feels like hours now but could well be only minutes, she’s been doing all she can to stop the bleeding. Careless to keep a countdown of what is a very short oxygen window.

“I promise this time, if you go,” Clarke barters, “I will hang up my pirate hat. I swear an oath to no longer pillage. Become a marine biologist and live in a boathouse with you on the open seas for the rest of our days, surviving on a vegetarian diet because a seafood one would be insensitive.” Lexa laughs again and Clarke takes that as encouragement to continue. “We’ll have a school of adorable half-fish, half-human mini us, all with fabulous tails, who you’ll teach to swim and I’ll show how not to drown. We’ll sail the world and drop anchor beneath the stars.”

“Sounds nice.” It _is_ a nice fantasy that Lexa so wants to buy into.

“But you have to let go—for a little while—so we can have a chance at that future.” Clarke sweeps a thumb over the back of her hand, trying to soothe the conflict she must read in Lexa’s eyes mulling the decision. “Just get back in the water, love. I’ll be right here. You can still see me. I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

Lexa wants to snap back, _stop making empty promises_ , but doesn’t have the heart to do it seeing the effort it’s taken Clarke to string together all those sentences giving them incentive to separate.

“Was the eyepatch really necessary?” She says instead, distracting, lifting the fabric to place a kiss over her eyelid.

“Absolutely.” Clarke smiles, tender. “It’s the aesthetic.”

“No more _aaarrggg_?” Lexa asks, resolve breaking. “You promise?”

“I do.”

Lexa scans the silent horizon, trusting that someone will come. She nods, relenting, but doesn’t let go until the very last second when breathing becomes nearly impossible. After a long and deep and desperate kiss with what air is left, on shaky legs, she retreats.

Clarke puts on a brave face and mouths, _thank you_. She then closes her eyes, like they can finally rest knowing Lexa is safe.

Wading back in the water, Lexa is helpless to watch from a painful short distance as her favourite blue disappears.

No further than ten feet apart, yet, achingly, it somehow feels like the expanse of the ocean between them that their love can’t breach.

.

.

.

.

(obviously, Raven and Octavia come barrelling forth minutes later, and Clarke and Lexa live happily ever after avoiding sushi, with Clarke a reformed criminal!)


	8. I don't care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: “if you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this.” (modern au | one night stand?)

***

“If you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this.”

“I don’t care about you, Clarke.”

It’s the hardest, harshest thing she’s ever had to say in three years. Lexa holds her gaze, so the words can have the intended force. But she didn’t calculate for how they would pierce her own heart. How much it hurts to see her best friend recoil in hurt.

“I never did,” Lexa adds on. Because it wasn’t enough to just wound, there had to be a finality to it. To kill any hope. Hope that Lexa carries and can’t flame because of a moment of weakness. “Not in that way. We’re just friends. It meant nothing to me. Last night was a mistake.”

It’s not true. It is so far from the truth that Lexa has to bite hard on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Has to keep her hands closed in fists by her side so as to not reach out seeing the wobble of Clarke’s chin, the water in her eyes. The look of utter betrayal and disappointment.

“So, everything you said,” Clarke asks, pausing for the break in her voice, “was a lie?”

Lexa thinks her lip will bleed from the violence of her teeth keeping the truth in.

“It was just the moment speaking. I was caught up,” she says, but can no longer maintain the steady eye contact, looking elsewhere but Clarke’s spilled over tears. “We were drunk, I was horny. You were there.”

Each missive is more cruel than the last. But it works. Clarke stares stunned, face ashen and a pallor of the joy they had shared into the early morning. She looks in complete disbelief of Lexa’s disavowal of the intimate confessions spoken between their bodies as they came together. Not once or twice but a lost count by the time Lexa was three fingers in deep, Clarke on her stomach, and their mutual cries reverberated in the room in rising crescendo. Then things slowed down but no less intense as they made unhurried love and gave voice to unsaid desire.

But with sunrise came a clarity that parted the fog of breathy moans and heated arousal. It couldn’t have been real. It can’t be real.

“ _Everything_ ,” Clarke repeats, drawing out the word, a new fire in her eyes, differently red rimmed by the glow of a seething anger. “That’s what you said while you were fucking me,” Lexa flinches at the phrasing, “that it was everything you’ve been waiting for. And now, hours later, it’s what, _nothing_? I was a convenience?”

 _No, you were a coming home_. Lexa yearns to say, but three years of pining and of having her heart broken each time she was near ready to confess what had appeared to increasingly be not-so-unrequited feelings, whether by bad timing or a new suitor or an ex returning, has hardened expectations. Having drawn the short straw once too many, she acutely needs to get ahead of the curve this time. Because having another possibility dangling in front of her, of Clarke wanting her and finally giving them a chance, only for it to be ripped away just as she reaches for it, is another blow Lexa may not be able to withstand. She has to get out now before there’s no getting back up.

“Yes.” Lexa’s reply is feeble, the barest of sound. But it drops as loudly as a pin into the deafening silence of Clarke’s apartment. The tinny note hits, ringing in her ears. She can’t keep the charade up for another second, afraid of how legible her heart is to someone who can read her like a book, how audible its thunderous beat has become. “I have to go.”

Lexa hastily grabs her jacket and makes way to leave.

“If you walk out that door,” Clarke starts, a steel in her voice that stops Lexa’s hand on the doorknob from turning.

The implication hangs.

Lexa is afraid to ask, but she does anyway, her tone no more than above a hush. “Then what?”

Facing the door, back turned to Clarke, she braces herself for the death knell to their friendship, prepared to hear Clarke’s ultimatum end any odds of repair between them from the rupture of Lexa walking through the threshold.

When nothing more comes from Clarke, with a lump in her throat and a knot in her stomach, Lexa opens the door, steps out.

Before another step can be taken, there is a sudden flood of warmth against her back, and arms tightly wrapping around her stomach. Lexa lets out a shuddering breath. The tears she’s been fighting to let fall are running freely down her cheeks as her body sinks into the familiar curve.

They stand unmoving for some time, simply feeling the other’s presence.

Several beats later, Clarke turns her around, cups Lexa’s face and kisses her with such stunning want and tenderness and desperation her knees almost give out. But Lexa hangs on to Clarke for stability, one hand in her hair, the other solidly around her waist, and they kiss until both their tears are dry.

“Then I will come after you,” Clarke whispers when they pull apart, foreheads leaned against each other. “Because Lexa,” she kisses her again, deep and slow and steady, only pausing to give sound to these words, “it was everything to me.”

Lexa sweeps her up into her arms, stepping forward into the apartment again and closing the door behind them. As she carries Clarke in the direction of the bedroom, mouths reconnecting, this is the last thing she hears,

“Because I’m your best friend and I know when you’re lying.”

And Lexa has never been more grateful to be so transparent.


	9. Nerd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: I’m not playing truth or dare and popular lexa/nerd Clarke (college au)

***

“Lemme see.”

“No.” Clarke tries to shoo her away, twisting to shield it from Lexa’s discerning gaze.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It is. You’re gonna laugh at me.”

Lexa crosses her heart then zips her lips, turns her fingers in a locking motion and throws away the invisible key.

“Promise I won’t.” Lexa nudges her knee, “I want to see.”

“K. Don’t laugh.”

Relenting, Clarke shows her. Squeezes her eyes shut in embarrassment, waiting for the reaction.

Lexa expels a puff of air but not in laughter. She gasps, one hand coming up to cover her mouth, the other angling Clarke for a better view. “Oh my god,” she loudly whispers. Clarke buries her face in Lexa’s shoulder, in a dramatic _I told you_ _so_ fashion. “You didn’t?”

“I did.”

Lexa bites her lip, looking to be fighting a too large smile.

“Why?”

“I lost a bet.”

“Raven or Octavia?”

Clarke winces at the minor pain when Lexa lowers her shirt back in place and the cotton accidentally grazes the fresh wound.

“Worse. Both,” Clarke answers.

“Want me to beat them up for picking on you? Me, braun. You, brain.”

When the quarterback pounds fists at her chest, it’s Clarke who laughs at her roommate’s antics.

“No need for Tarzan, this one’s on me. I walked into it.”

“You walked into a tattoo?”

“We were playing truth or dare. Well, they were, I didn’t want to, was trying to study. But they taunted me about always having my nose in textbooks. Said I wouldn’t know _fun_ even if it was tattooed to my forehead.”

“You sure showed them.”

“I sure did.”

Not as ill-advised as a forehead declaration or a tramp stamp but Clarke has certainly made better life choices.

“Lemme see again. I can’t believe you did that.”

Clarke can’t believe it either.

There, in small script, on her side just under her ribs, etched in black ink into rose-pink skin was the single-word evidence of a miscalculated response to peer pressure.

_**clexa** _

Lexa traces its outline, examining the calligraphy and the woodland vines curling around the letters, in equal awe and amusement. Clarke hisses, covering up with a much more appropriate sound than the moan that soft, prodding fingers elicit.

“Sorry. Here, wait.”

The weight of her bed shifts as Lexa momentarily gets off to fetch something from her side of the dorm. She returns again with aloe vera cream, resettling to sit cross-legged in front of Clarke.

Clarke’s breath hitches when Lexa wordlessly applies a dab of it to the surrounding skin, distributing the coolness in practised patterns.

“We use this after training. Works wonders,” she supplies, massaging in soft circles.

“Thanks,” Clarke croaks.

She leans her head back against the wall, letting Lexa do her magic and toe the line of friendship. By how much Clarke’s heart pounds in her chest at the intimate gesture, the line is pretty much eviscerated.

“Why would you have our combined names inscribed on your body?”

It’s a fair question. But how does she explain the reason they are now so indelibly, linguistically, tied together.

Clarke shrugs, her cheeks flushing.

“I panicked, okay.”

Lexa can’t hold her laugh in any longer, it’s bright and lively and full of fond warmth.

“What’s the truth?”

“I am telling the truth. Lex, the tattoo artist guy was extremely intimidating. I just spewed the first thought that came to mind when he asked what I wanted to imprint forever.”

Gus was actually very nice, the gentlest giant bear of a man, but when he eyed her confusedly like she had walked into his parlour mistaking it for the library, Clarke wanted to prove she could be as badass as the barb-wired, geometric lines covering his face.

Lexa laughs again. “As flattering as it is that you want to take _bffs_ to a whole new level, I meant, what was the truth question of truth or dare that made you run to the nearest needle to avoid answering it?”

Clarke averts eye contact, finding interest in the pattern of microscopes of her Marie Curie-inspired duvet cover. Lexa waits patiently.

“Do you have a crush on your hot roommate?” Clarke mumbles, obliquely revealing the prompt.

The exact question was, _are you in love with your college star roommate who makes Adonis look like he’s had one too many doughnuts?_

When she looks back up, Lexa is studying her intently. Darkened eyes flitting down to Clarke’s lips, expression concentrated like when she’s trying to work out a difficult play on the field or push through a simple math problem during one of their tutoring sessions. As always, the adorable confusion does inconvenient things to Clarke’s heart. Awakens familiar butterflies in her stomach.

A significant beat passes.

“ _Do_ you?”

“Do I what?” Clarke stalls.

“Have a crush on your hot roommate?”

“Not you too.” Clarke deflects, rolling her eyes. If only for something to do to ignore Lexa’s subconscious stroking of her thumb beneath the angry mark.

“Let me get this gay. Instead of denying an innocuous question from two bored troublemakers trying to rile you up, you chose to commit the answer permanently onto your skin. There’s gotta be a little bit of infatuation somewhere in there, no?” Lexa teases. “Or at least, some romantic projecting.”

“Don’t be a jerk.”

“C’mon, tell me, I have personal vested interest at stake here.” Lexa pouts, giving her best puppy dog eyes. 

Clarke laughs, pushing at her shoulder. She rights her top again, concealing the byproduct of precisely how those lips and that set of eyes often lead to such spectacular, poor decision-making.

“You _know_ I do.”

Lexa beams. Expression breaking into glee at the admission. The width of her smile kick-starts a fresh round of tingles.

“Your roommate must be really hot.”

“Not when she refers to herself in the third person.”

“Do her guns do something for you?”

Lexa flexes her arms. Clarke swats them away.

“Don’t be a jock cliché.”

“If it helps to break stereotypes, _she_ thinks you’re really hot—debate club president, science club co-founder, and national spelling bee trophy holder, put-cheerleader-to-shame, kind of hot.”

Clarke flushes at the casual listing of her past achievements Lexa finds attractive. She is in the middle of tamping down the onset flight of more butterflies when Lexa straddles her and snakes a hand into her hair and cups her face with the other. Lexa gives only an eye-twinkle of a warning before she kisses Clarke breathless. When they draw for air, it’s full of mischief that Lexa says, “ _She_ has a crush on you too.”

Grinning with a matching lopsided curl of lips, Clarke shakes her head at her ridiculous girlfriend / hot roommate.

“That’s cheesy, babe. And they call me the nerd.”

“How ‘bout after we have a vigorous intellectual debate via the medium of sex about the finer distinctions between popular and nerd, we finally go tell our friends you and I have been secretly dating for months? That way, next time I’m not there to fight your battles, you won’t end up with a sleeve.”

“What exactly will we tell them? It’s not like anyone is gonna believe me that Polis U’s darling athlete, _the_ Lexa Woods is sharing cooties with three-times state chess champion Clarke Griffin.”

“We’ll tell them…” Lexa whispers into the shell of Clarke’s ear, sending shivers down her spine, “ _clexa_ is real.”

Before Clarke can groan in protest at their ship name being misappropriated, Lexa pulls a different sound from her by pulling at her legs until she’s upended entirely on her back with Lexa on top.

“Lexa!” she yelps, laughing.

“Now, show me how much fun you can really be, nerd.”


	10. One and Two — Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardest part about getting over someone is the still being in love with them bit.
> 
> Sequel to [One and Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810883/chapters/52181215).

***

“How many is that now?”

The bartender is kind enough not to give an exact number. Hands busy with a rag wiping the counter, he pauses for a moment to offer a wan smile, eyes sympathetic and head inclined in a way that indicate, one too many.

Lexa sighs, not surprised by the answer to her question.

Slumped over the bar top two stools down from where Lexa stands is the subject of their mutual concern. The sleeping figure makes an indiscrete noise, something caught between a burp and a hiccup, which only confirms the high tally of drinks.

The sight breaks her heart.

Drunk, pretty girls is an anodyne staple of the typical bar scene but with the way this particular drunk, pretty girl makes her chest ache, there isn’t anything dull about it.

Lexa lets out another heavy exhale. Pulls out a fifty dollar bill, all the cash she has on hand. By the number of shot glasses and tumblers spread before them, it’s unlikely enough to cover the tab. On a gentle head shake, Lincoln refuses to take her money, instead, grabs a new highball glass and fills it to the top with water.

“She’ll need a few of these.”

“Thanks, Linc,” Lexa says, mustering an approximation of a smile. He nods, returning a more genuine one, reaching across to squeeze her shoulder, a light but anchoring touch that provides a modicum of comfort.

“Take your time. I’m closing tonight.”

After sparing one last look, gaze soft and ever gentle, Lincoln resumes his cleaning, moving to the far end to give them privacy. But not before pausing to peer over his shoulder to let Lexa know, an admission said quiet enough so as not to cause alarm, “She asked for you.”

The lump in Lexa’s throat grows. Her chest tightens.

Regardless of what the disclosure does to upend her card-house composure, Lexa is grateful for her friend and his care. Even if it was a difficult phone call, one she didn’t expect to receive five weeks after everything, she’s glad he dialled her number. Though, it would seem hers was on a very short list of available names. _Sorry, Lex, this is her fourth time in this week. There was no one else I could ring._ The edge in his voice was worrisome on its own, but it was the ‘no one else’ part that had struck a familiar aching chord to a heart that has worked hard to tune it out. To tune Clarke out.

Something of a tangible melancholy implicated in ‘no one’ compelled her to trek across town at half past one am in the morning to her former favourite speakeasy, a hideout tucked in the back alleys of Chinatown between the hair salon and the twenty-four hour all-you-can-eat noodle shop.

Walking through the unmarked, shabby black doors to where she had first met Clarke, it brought back a flood of memories. Five years of stillhouses and stolen kisses and secret cinema: Fridays to try Lincoln’s latest mixes, Sundays to indulge in cult movies and classic silent films in the back darkroom, and the occasional weeknight to indulge in each other in easy companionship and intimate conversation over pilsners and pistachios. Since that first encounter when Anya had introduced Lexa to the underground bar in celebration of passing a higher bar, and up until last month, it had been her and Clarke’s go to place to wind down after long days in court and surgery.

Lexa turns her head to survey the room. It’s absent of the usual clatter and chatter, near empty of bodies and movement as the clock hand ticks towards last call. A few drinkers remain, straggled about in open and discrete corners alike, savouring the final drops of their liquid comfort. The band is disassembling their set in hushed, practised moves. Couples speak in a low volume so as not to disturb an unspoken agreement among patrons to a shared quiet under dim pink light. A sacred silence, held briefly in place to let the fog of intoxication dissipate and the outside world seep back in. But from what now feels like a lifetime ago, Lexa only hears the loudness of a distant past when her eyes land on the spot in the middle of the floor.

She was on her way back to Anya and their booth, weaving through the crowd with their drink and food order, balancing two shots and two beers in one hand and a tray of jalapeño fries, sweet potato nachos and a stack of mini sliders in the other, when she scarcely avoided a collision with a blur of blonde hair, black leather, and dark jeans. A hand to her waist, soft yet firm in its grip, held Lexa back from tripping and kept her dinner from meeting its almost fate on the floor.

Lexa felt fingers digging into her side to steady them both, the heat branding hotter than the flame-inducing overproof rum spilt over the back of her hand.

“Careful,” a voice as smoky as the after-hours atmosphere united sound and touch, “wouldn’t want you falling.”

Since that first greeting, followed by a challenge of, “Sure you can handle all that?” and a lift of eyebrow, Lexa was a goner. Not sure what exactly she was being asked—whether she can manage the high alcohol content, the small army of bar snacks, or the insanely attractive girl in front of her—she could hardly form a thought nevermind a sentence to reply, too late with a witty comeback about falling, _I already have_. She could only give a graceless nod at the offer of, “Here let me help.” But instead of extending an extra hand, the blonde swiped a fry, and then, around the crunch of potato, bright blue eyes crinkling with mirth, said, “There, lighter now.”

The heaviness of her load, unchanged in the least by the minor shift in weight, was nothing compared to the weighty look studying her reaction as Lexa watched helpless while one fry then another disappeared from her tray behind crimson lips.

“Better?”

“Not really.”

Worse actually, because the laugh her honest quip earned was accompanied by a loss of warmth, the hand retracting to grab a hold of her food tray.

For nothing better to say, Lexa asked, “If you’re going to eat all that, could you kindly let my sister know I never made it back to our table because I withered away after a pretty girl stole my entire dinner?”

A blush broke across the thief’s face at the same time that her smile widened and another laugh reached Lexa’s ears.

“Clarke.”

Lexa shook the outstretched hand with her newly freed one.

“Clexa,” she flubbed, confusing and compounding her name with Clarke’s as she hadn’t finished practising the latter in her head before announcing her own out loud. “Sorry, it’s the hunger pangs talking,” she excused then corrected the slip, “Lexa.”

“I’m happy to share, Lexa.” Clarke had no shame offering Lexa a fry from her own tray, the audacity adding to the attraction. “As a doctor, I can’t be responsible for any withering. It’d be unprofessional.”

“As a lawyer, I could sue you for malpractice.”

“I hope so.” Clarke’s gaze darted down to Lexa’s lips, holding it for a beat before remaking eye contact. “I get the feeling I wouldn’t be the first willing to break the law for that pout.”

It was a terrible line but it did terrible things to Lexa’s heart. Clarke radiated charisma and a natural warmth that anyone with a pulse would be hard pressed to ignore. Hers sped up when, tongue fully in cheek, coquettish smile fully in place, Clarke appended, “That bottom lip alone is an invitation to a life of crime.”

It didn’t seem like the right time to bring up that she specialises in tax law, but looking into eyes alight with nothing but trouble, Lexa felt the most insistent urge in the moment to change career track to criminal law.

That tugging was the only plausible reason that compelled her to nod sagely and, with all the seriousness and wisdom of a judge handing out a verdict, she concurred, “Be gay, do crimes.”

Clarke’s answering burst of laughter sealed the deal.

From there, their story unfolded in ways both expected and unexpected. As undeniable as their blatant flirting, Lexa fell for Clarke hard and fast. As in later that very evening, after ditching the joined-up group of her sister and Clarke’s friends for the privacy of Lexa’s apartment, their instant chemistry and the palpable sexual attraction turned into a night unlike any other Lexa had experienced. Mouths met, warm and hungry, first in the booth when it was Anya’s turn to grab a round while everyone else occupied the dance floor and Clarke had taken her leave as opportunity to grab Lexa by the shirt; then in the back of the cab when the distance of the middle seat separating them seemed an unnecessary pretense of restraint; then against the back of Lexa’s door, hot and panting, need peaking, arousal plain, not long before ending on her bed and Clarke under her.

The sex was unbelievable, the banter even better.

Drawing out orgasms and laughter in equal measure from each other until the early hours, Lexa had woken up sore and with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome weight on her chest. The same hand that first prevented her from falling was again holding on tightly and less successful this time at keeping Lexa from tumbling headlong. One morning turned into two then four until a week became a month then months became years.

From the domestic to the intimate, the platonic to the romantic, the initial spark of their connection intensified from two to a thousandfold at each successive meeting, attraction bleeding seamlessly to affection to bone deep adoration. Whether burrowed under mountains of blankets for movie night, debating plot theories and film genres, or Lexa buried inside Clarke, penetrating as _deep_ as possible to cling onto Clarke’s warmth for as _long_ as possible, both gasping for breath—love underpinned every point of contact. Wanting. Aching.

Through it all, the speakeasy was the touchstone of their relationship. A refuge of blue velvet and aged liquor and sticky floorboards. A place that was secret and special and theirs.

Being back here, under such different circumstances—nursing an unclosed wound—Lexa lets out a shaky breath, wondering how and where it went so wrong. How she could have been so blindsided.

She takes off her jacket, sets it on the stool’s back and settles into the one next to her ex-girlfriend. Were she not so confused about the turn of events, Lexa might have given thought to the leather jacket’s origin, how it once belonged to Clarke but has long since gained co-ownership. Were she not so otherwise preoccupied, Lexa might have given consideration to why she still wears it.

Taking in the mess of blonde hair for the first time, the clothes that hang a little loose, the pallid complexion and the thick cloud of alcohol, Lexa feels a sharp pang of regret. After her breakdown in their kitchen, she had shut down and shut Clarke out, ignoring texts and calls and surrogate pleas via well-intentioned friends to make amends, too hurt to hear the full story. The betrayal had been sharp, incisive— _there’s someone, we kissed_ —the only way to survive it was a clean, swift cut.

No matter Clarke’s cries that it didn’t mean anything, that Lexa is who she wants, Lexa couldn’t see the forest for the trees, so keenly keyed into the din of her heart shattering, all else became noise. She could not parse Clarke’s actions in any way to reconcile heartbreak with a path forward.

Robert Frost was wrong, sometimes the only way out isn’t through.

Some lines cannot be crossed.

Some things cannot be forgiven.

_I’m done, we’re done._

Those were her last words before instinct took over, one foot put in front of the other to get through the next day and onto the one after then to the hundredth later, until days and weeks blended together and the pain in her chest dulled to a murmur rather than an ever crushing roar.

With distance and time, and now in the face of sadness embodied in single malts, Lexa can recognise that her leaving without a further word might have caused its own collateral damage. That, in a bid of self-protection and premature pursuit of healing before properly assessing the full extent of injury, she had only displaced the wound elsewhere, its black and blue relocating to the heavy bags under closed blue eyes she hasn’t set upon since walking away.

It chips at Lexa’s walls. A knot twists in her stomach.

Her gameplan to leave emotion outside of the entrance of the club after crossing its threshold, falls to the wayside. The more she studies the tangle of wheat tresses splaying atop stained wood, the more her resolve to remain passive crumbles. This haircut is shorter, the style more tousled, but the shade of honey blonde remains the same. The changeover from a golden hue to a lighter yellow was once her favourite way to forecast the arrival of summer.

Fighting the greatest urge to run her fingers through Clarke’s hair, Lexa settles instead on tucking a strand behind her ear, touch lingering on its pink shell, the degree of redness a usual give-away of the degree of excess consumption.

Letting out a fond exhale, she asks softly, “How much did you drink, Clarke?”, more to herself than anything.

She doesn’t anticipate an answer but receives one anyway.

“Not enough,” comes the raspy reply. Lexa startles, shifting her attention to find a swim of blue staring up at her in puzzled wonder. Even under the low lighting, the colour still knocks the air out of her lungs. A lopsided, gin-soaked smile greets her as recognition breaks across Clarke’s face. Her heart lurches and stomach whoops at the affection reflecting in the glassy gaze which turns more watery when Clarke waffles on in confusion, “I still see you.”

“Sorry?”

Clarke reaches out, hand landing clumsily on Lexa’s face, fingers seeking and prodding. Not heeding Lexa’s sharp intake of breath, she traces her chin and cheekbones, exploring with fragile care. Like Clarke is afraid Lexa—or the illusion—will break if more force is applied.

“You feel so real,” Clarke observes, a look of awe that’s interrupted by a hiccup. Then abruptly leaning forward, almost tipping out of her stool that Lexa has to quickly right, she nuzzles into the curve of Lexa’s shoulder and neck, inhales deeply, and remarks, “smell real too.” Before Lexa can respond that the strong odour isn’t exactly her perfume Clarke’s head jerks off just as suddenly. Eyebrows knitted, she picks up the shot glass closest to her, eyeing it in appreciation, “Linc must’ve given me the good stuff,” which turns into apprehension, “but it’s supposed to make you disappear. I’m meant to forget what you look like,” Clarke whines, thoughts jumbled in confusion. “How ... why are you here?”

Past the now oversized lump in her throat, Lexa swallows hard at the inadvertent admission of the motivation behind Clarke’s excessive drinking. Decides to interpret her query as a rhetorical question rather than an existential one, not sure she even has an honest answer for herself on the latter.

Clarke looks on the verge of tears, gaze penetrating to the bottom of the glass, questioning an invisible god, “Why can’t I forget?”

She shakes her head as if to erase the image of Lexa like an etch-a-sketch but then appears both relieved and despondent to find Lexa still there.

Shrugging at her luck, Clarke knocks back the glass, downing the amber dregs, face pulling when it empties. Like a lost puppy, Clarke lifts the glass towards Lexa in a helpless gesture that reads, _do something about it_.

Lexa gingerly pries it from her tight grip, setting it down on the countertop and pouring water from the taller glass into the smaller one. She presses the drink back into Clarke’s hand.

“Here, the good stuff,” Lexa tells her, pointed. When Clarke upturns her nose, suspicious, she lies, “It’s Lincoln’s best vodka.”

In a pretend act of solidarity, Lexa pours herself one and throws it down with an exaggerated swallow. Wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, she says, _ahhhhh_ , like it’s smooth white Russian gold lining her throat.

Not in a state of clarity to question the authenticity of the clear, distilled beverage, nor poke holes at Lexa’s performance, Clarke happily guzzles the ‘shot’. It’s a slow process involving frequent pours between pawing attempts to ascertain Lexa’s corporeal realness, but several _shooters_ later, Lexa manages to get three quarters of the glass of water into Clarke’s very dehydrated system.

An inebriated Clarke is typically a clingy Clarke akin to an excitable pup with a new chew toy, so her singular attention on Lexa shouldn’t come as a surprise. Nonetheless, Lexa’s breath hitches at every touch, caught off guard by how much it alights a fire to her skin still, by how her body leans into the intoxicating warmth like tinder to kerosene.

When Clarke sways to her feet, intent on continuing her examination up close and personal by starting to climb into Lexa’s lap, Lexa gets Lincoln’s assistance to relocate them into a booth for better golden retriever management. With no thought to the familiar plush seating and _their_ corner of the room, she redoubles her efforts to rebalance Clarke’s ratio of alcohol to water.

Every drop is a fight, but Lexa persists, scowling at each turn until Clarke gives in.

“Y’know, you’re not very intimidating,” Clarke says, waggling an unfocused finger in Lexa’s general direction, chuckling as she takes another sip. “I fell in love with you because of how very not intimidating you are.”

Sidestepping the l-word and the uptick of heartbeat it causes, Lexa answers her giggle with a glare. She pushes on, until three and four shots become nine and ten.

The effort eventually pays off, though it comes at a price.

Her heart is thundering by the time Clarke is subdued into a mini nap. Against Lexa’s futile resistance, Clarke had succeeded in straddling Lexa, hanging on like a koala, arms looped around her neck and head tucked under her chin, before dozing off. With how close they are, it’s the most intimate position Lexa has been in since they were last similarly arranged. This time, Clarke is snoring, in a state of deep sleep that has Lexa thinking rest has been likewise elusive for her once they stopped sharing a bed.

Relenting, Lexa strokes Clarke’s hair, the other hand steadying her by the hip. It moves in an aimless pattern as she tips her head back against the top of the booth, exhales deeply, and closes her eyes as well. Going the lone wolf path hasn’t quite worked out, she wonders if exploring this completely opposite, koala option might be a viable alternative.

It certainly can’t hurt anymore than long nights at the office working herself physically and emotionally thin, ending with microwave dinners and an empty bed and tear-filled, fitful sleep. It certainly can’t be anymore painful than waking up in the morning and reaching over expecting an arm full of blonde and to hear a scratchy voice negotiating for five more minutes, only to discover cold sheets and an old college sweater that’s losing its smell. And it certainly can’t be anymore devastating (or humiliating) than breaking down at a Best Buy—phone cradled in hand like a lifeline that’s been cut—asking for tech support to retrieve years worth of photo albums deleted on impulse.

Her thoughts return to lines and paths and forests, of which way to go from here towards a clearing where it won’t hurt so much to look up and take in the colour of the sky.

While Lexa ruminates about choices made and other possibilities to consider, drunk Clarke seems fairly content with her one decision of the night to use Lexa as a pillow. She purrs and snuggles in closer.

The hardest part about getting over someone is the still being in love with them bit. Within a small number of pre-dawn hours, simply by a needy tug of her sweater and a small puddle of drool collecting at the base of her throat, all the feelings Lexa has obstinately tried to block out comes rushing forward. It was incredibly naive—or perhaps wishful thinking—to believe five weeks would be sufficient time to mourn the loss of five years. One week for every year. Foolish and falsely optimistic.

Lexa’s arms tighten around Clarke’s torso. Foregoing self doubt in favour of self comfort, she kisses the top of Clarke’s head and seeks solace in her missed warmth.

Clarke won’t remember any of this so Lexa indulges in the momentary relief of letting her guard down. Her fingers move of their own accord, threading and unthreading to smooth out matted curls, while her lips occasionally skim Clarke’s hairline, their presses increasing in length and hold. It’s masochist in many ways—none of this blunts the ache in her chest—but that’s a problem for future Lexa to confront when she’s alone again.

Lexa vaguely registers Lincoln coming by with a blanket to drape over them and an extra set of keys he places on the table, notifying that he’s locking up and leaving Clarke and Lexa alone in the club free to go when they’re ready.

She mouths _thank you_ and settles in for however long it takes, falling asleep to the rise and fall of Clarke’s chest.

It must speak of their shared fatigue that Lexa forgets where she is when Clarke whimpers against her neck, making inarticulate sounds, and Lexa’s instinct is to hush a gentle reassurance, “Shhh, it’s okay, baby, just a nightmare, go back to sleep,” and subconsciously bends her head down to kiss Clarke softly, rubbing her back, until they’re both out again.

Holding onto this rare and brief peace, Lexa does not once move thereafter, despite the cramping.

It’s sometime later, Lexa doesn’t know what hour, that she awakens feeling something shift in her arms. She doesn’t realise what it is until she feels lips skating the column of her neck, warm breath on her skin. She comes into full awareness of _exactly_ what it is, feeling something warmer below. Clarke is palming her breast and slowly grinding on her lap.

Clarke must be dreaming. Lexa stiffens, calculating a next move. She should stop whatever is happening but she’s been so lonely that having the press of Clarke’s body against hers is a temporary balm to a broken heart that Lexa feels conflicted to self-deny. Torn over protracting or protesting the moment.

The decision is shortly taken out of her hands when Clarke’s mouth is suddenly on hers and moving against Lexa’s mouth as if this is the first real drink of water she has had all night.

The one-sided kiss turns into a mutual pursuit as Lexa lets go of restraint, giving into the whiskey-tinged sweetness of Clarke’s tongue licking at her bottom lip, asking for entrance. On her parting to grant it, they both sigh into the taste, moaning into the push and pull of want and need, getting lost in the reacquainting.

It’s been getting harder and harder to keep her head above water but this kiss feels like the first break of surface, the first gasp for air. Lexa drowns herself in it, sinks into a liquid love that’s been slipping through her fingers, cups Clarke’s face to hold it in place between trembling hands.

The kiss deepens. Tasting of longing. Of a devastated kind of pining. Clarke rolls herself against Lexa, moving in taut circles mapped to the chase of their mouths. It’s only when Lexa feels wetness against her stomach that she realises the heady direction they’re barrelling towards. Putting a hand to Clarke’s chest, on the tiniest remnant of wherewithal, she gently pushes her away and pulls back, panting. The significance of what they’re doing, and about to do, finally hitting.

“I ... we can’t.”

“No, no, Lex, please,” Clarke sounds panicked. Whether it’s because of the lingering alcohol or the fog of disoriented slumber, her voice is distressed.

Lexa shakes her head, looking to the ceiling, jaw tight as tears pool in her eyes and her heart hammers threatening to break out of her chest.

“We can’t kiss like that. Or at all.”

“Wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me,” Clarke begs, her eyes welling too. “Don’t stop. It’s just a dream,” she implores, arguing, “This isn’t real so we can keep kissing. There aren’t any real consequences.”

The desperate rambling causes Lexa’s tears to run, the burn behind her eyes too overwhelming to hold back.

“Clarke,” she enjoins.

Clarke’s eyes are clouded by sleep but any visible signs of intoxication aren’t present. Overtaken by heartbreak. She fists Lexa’s shirt, pleading for Lexa to grasp what this means to her.

“This is _my dream_ , I’m dreaming. I’m still asleep. I haven’t woken up yet. Let me have a few more minutes. _Please_.”

“Clarke, we should talk.”

“No, no. You left and you wouldn’t talk to me,” Clarke responds. It’s not said as a dig or with any malicious intent but it does stab at Lexa nonetheless as she continues to list off, “You wouldn’t answer my calls. You didn’t let me explain. You gave up on us. You didn’t fight for me. You ... you left.”

“I know.” Lexa hangs her head at her complicity in complicating their breakup.

“No, Lexa, you don’t. You _left_. Before anything ever happened with—” Clarke cuts herself off, thankfully doesn’t say the name, Lexa wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Can’t bear to hear it. Picking up on a different thread, Clarke carries on, sounding more fraught and frantic as she goes, “But when I close my eyes, when I’m dreaming, you’re still there. You’re still fighting for me, you’re still kissing me.” Her lower lip trembles. “And it’s not so lonely and I’m not such a bad guy.” She breaks for a sob, “So, can we talk later? After? I just, I miss you so much.”

“It won’t fix anything,” is all Lexa can say, an insufficient levee against Clarke’s stream of consciousness she’s several steps behind from processing.

“It won’t, I know,” Clarke says, appeasing. “Maybe in another world, a kinder one, I get to kiss you again and it won’t hurt and you’ll forgive me.” She wipes at her eyes and continues to make her case, words outflowing like a burst dam. “I know in this one, in this reality, I’ve damaged us beyond repair and there’s nothing that I can do or say to fix it. And even if there is, you won’t let me. But I just ... I just want to pretend that we’re in the other world where I can keep kissing you and you’ll make love to me and I can show you, if only for a small infinity, how sorry I am, how incredibly sorry I am.”

Clarke is crying and Lexa’s throat is closing up at the raw emotion she can’t contain or bear to witness. Clarke’s head has fallen onto her shoulder, her sobs wetting the collar of Lexa’s top. Inconsolable.

“Please, Lexa. It’s all I have left. Just this once, and you can go back to hating me,” she whispers, so small and broken. “Love me one more time.”

An ask so bare and vulnerable, something of her devastation cracks Lexa open, she gravitates to the centripetal force of its destruction. “Shhh, shhh,” she coos, rubbing Clarke’s back again in comfort. Wants so badly to offer more than comfort, to give her that world.

Lexa can imagine it. They would rock together for awhile before she ultimately yields, can see herself turning them around on the seat and laying Clarke down on her back, nestling in between her legs. “Shhhh, it’s okay,” she would say, “Just a dream.”

Clarke would nod, understanding, sobs quieting as Lexa brushes fallen hair out of her face then kisses along the tear tracks. A pregnant silence would build as Lexa descends down her body, leaving a trail of _just a dream_ across her chest, along her ribs and over her stomach, words deposited into soft curves. A soft kiss for every _please_. Slowly, she’d pull Clarke’s pants down and off, removing her underwear in the same go.

The visual is so vivid, Lexa has to suck in a breath at the thought of the evidence of arousal revealed. Its heady scent. Keeping eye contact, she would brush one finger through Clarke’s wetness before placing a feather of a kiss on her sex and inhaling deeply. After that, Lexa would be quicker to remove her own bottom and the rest of both their clothes. Returning to lie on top of Clarke, she’d caress her jaw, sweeping a thumb across her cheek, before kissing Clarke again. Soundly.

 _Just a dream_ would be uttered once more before Lexa makes come true everything she has fantasised about in the past weeks.

After paying intensive attention to Clarke’s lips then her breasts, a combination of soft and bruising, Lexa would spread Clarke’s legs further apart and push them back until her knees are at her chest and her calves rest over Lexa’s shoulders.

She’d enter Clarke with one finger, working her up in slow passes until more is asked, for her to add a second then a third. Never going faster than the pace of their languid kissing, Lexa imagines sliding in and out to the sound of Clarke’s soft mewling and the scratches on her back.

When they’re not kissing, Clarke’s eyes—blue dilated to near black—would be intently on her, memorising every one of Lexa’s feature and movement and noise, savouring each.

A pattern of slow withdrawal and slower re-entry, Lexa would softly fuck all the hurt and pain away.

Being inside Clarke like that, having her warmth wrap around Lexa’s fingers, having her body move along to Lexa’s as she sinks in deeper and deeper, it would be too easy to pretend they aren’t broken. Persuaded into believing their coming together will make them fleetingly whole. Lexa’s mouth and tongue and hands would make Clarke moan and pant and cry her name, coming so hard on her fingers Clarke would never want to kiss anyone else again. For one blinding moment of bliss in a suspension of the real it would be enough. _Lexa_ would be enough.

It’s a tempting world, offered without strings, but Lexa wants something more tangible, more attached. More grounded. Without the amber hue of grief and loss.

She also can’t in good conscience take advantage of Clarke’s vulnerable state, no matter how much she misses their intimacy or craves to have it again.

Tipping Clarke’s head back and locking their gazes, Lexa says, “I don’t want to love you one more time.”

Clarke’s face falls, she looks bereft. A fresh wave of tears spills over. With what looks like the effort of holding up the weight of a crumbled world on her shoulders, she lifts herself off of Lexa, nodding in agonised acceptance. Making to go.

Lexa doesn’t let her get far. She pulls Clarke back by the wrist, back onto her lap. She tilts her chin up and places a soft kiss on her forehead. Then traces the curve of Clarke’s mouth with her thumb, ending the exploration with a press of her lips to the beauty mark that sits atop.

“I don’t want our next kiss to be our last,” Lexa amends.

Clarke cries harder then, folds into Lexa’s chest, mouthing a faint, “I don’t either”, against her skin. The salt of her words tracks down Lexa’s neck where Clarke’s head lies.

Lexa brushes away the tears.

“Let’s talk.”

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Sunday angst. Thanks for reading :)


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